


Swimming in honey

by GylfiDekavage



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:55:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21634735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GylfiDekavage/pseuds/GylfiDekavage
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character





	Swimming in honey

What an agonizingly beautiful day.

"Faint sunlight touching the window still, it's as if it is bugging the window still. Well, it's not chill, it's rather pleasant, with the soothing smooth fresh air being present. It fills your lungs with delight, takes your brain to new heights and fights all the darkness inside you until it crumbles down in defeat, tumbling to the ground with its last heartbeat. Once you open the window, you lay eyes on a lake and shake your head, 'cause you dread the days when you lived somewhere else but here. Near the heart of nature, where every leaf is filled with life and you just need to hug your wife holding a baby in your arms. A disarming chuckle comes from her as you kiss her, a gurgle comes from your youth, you stay rest assured that every word you'll ever share will be the truth. Like the windmill cuts the air, the sound of silence shuts your care, there's no disturbance from some urban urgent turbulence that comes out of nowhere. The water mirror's your features and you smile at your reflection, oh honey, you say, this life here might just be perfection."

Spair closed his notebook and put it to rest on his desk. His writing was getting worse every day. He could see it. Combining prose and poetry had been a terrible idea, and he constantly blamed himself for trying it. The results were not satisfying. Not only did he get worse every day, but he also noticed a certain forgetfulness that was a new unwelcome addition to his life. Starting about a week ago, he began forgetting where he put certain items, the first one being his toothbrush. Back then, Spair simply put the rumoring thought of him having a problem aside and continued as nothing had happened. But then his pencil was gone and Spair searched for it everywhere - until he found it on his desk. That wasn't normal. Spair had looked around his shack that day and noticed something was off. Despite his rocking chair, his small table and huge bookshelf, everything looked out-of-place while being perfectly tidy at the same time. The only thing stopping him from losing his composure that day had been Fright, his loyal companion through thick and thin. The dog had just returned from running around outside like a complete maniac, something that Spair did consider doing at that moment. But seeing his best friend run to him, jump up at his frame to hug him with his paws - how cold must a heart be to do such a horrible thing as leave this good boi behind. Fright would not know what was going on, he would lay down in confusion, put his snout between his paws and make these heartbreaking whimper noise signifying that the dog was in distress. Spair could not handle seeing his dog in a state like that, a brotherly feeling would overcome him that he knew from his past. He needed to be strong for his dog.

Spair chuckled as he made himself a cup of coffee. He was strong enough for a dog, but humans mostly annoyed or disgusted him. Early in his life, he learned to admit that nature touched his heart more than the company of people, written words mesmerized him stronger than spoken ones. His first relationship had been an exchange of sweet, sweet letters full of delicate words with a girl he loved dearly. Or so he thought for sure. But then she suddenly asked to see his face and break the unspoken bond between the two. Spair couldn't agree to such a thing. Her beauty was a figment of his imagination and he knew that reality could never live up to his expectations. He was fine with that thought though, imagination was stronger if reality was blurred and he knew it would be enough to keep his love for this mysterious girl alive forever. And then her letter contained a photograph of herself and a plead to reveal himself because 'the inner fight against her fantasy was getting harder and harder to win'. She was hideous compared to the image in front of his inner eye, cheeks too puffy, teeth looking too much through her lips, her eyes, not the same blue he pictured them. His answer was hostile, she killed his image of her after all. He wrote all his anger, his frustration, and disappointment into one letter and destined it to be his last. He received a reply, but did not read it, he could not grant her the right to redemption after a betrayal like that. 

The world lost its colors that day. The skies' blue vanished, along with the grass' green and along with autumn's magical dress of leaves they all turned into different shades of grey. Days dragged on like protracted chewing gum and every step felt like trying to move in a bowl of honey. Moving was getting more and more difficult, his fascination for words had been damaged along with his inspiration. That was around the time his small savior entered his life: The lone little puppy he named Fright. It was ironic because his bubbly buddy took away all the things he was previously afraid of, and the dog even gave him the strength to continue writing. Spair wrote about his countless attempts to replace the woman who tore that deep wound into his heart and his battle with alcohol addiction. A tragic figure that was less loosely based on himself as he originally planned to, won a prestigious prize and made him famous - 5 million copies sold thus far. At his receiving speech, he thanked his dog for giving him the strength to go on, resulting in Fright becoming an internet phenomenon. The 'motivation dog'. A good name, but Spair hated that other people were acting as if his dog was helping them in any way, even though he wasn't even present. As soon as he had enough money to get out of the public, escape the daily hunt by thirsty paparazzi and away from luscious lips, telling him the lie that his book was great....he went for it. Fame made his life hectic, unbearable, but it enabled him to disappear without a trace to one of the most beautiful places on earth. A cabin in the woods; access to hot water via gas, a grocery store within reach. A mirrored lake in which he could swim every day, a panorama of the firmament when he felt melancholic. The world regained its colors in this place. His hopes for a better life were high. Others would say that money bought him happiness.

He knew better.

Spair watched the clouds outside of his shack, caressing his dog's ears and scalp, earning a content rumble from the loyal dog. Fright loved that he could run around in the forest as much as he wanted whenever he wanted and that was exciting to see. At first. The sky wasn't perfect, a few thin water-filled strings were passing by. They had been beautiful at first. Just as beautiful as the meadow of wildflowers he saw day in, day out. Beautiful. He used that word in his past literature way too often, it barely had meaning any more. Everything was so beautiful that he started seeing the ugly in beauty. The sky was one example. The dream image was blue heaven as far as one could see, but Spair knew that wasn't true. Or flowers, the pigmentation of their petals was not as diverse as the local social activist might expect. He saw the same shades every day, the water froze his breathing the same way every time. He loathed that he could not show the world the poetry he had developed when the magic was still there, it was far better than the lousy book that was praised by 'experts' as 'revolutionary'. What did they know? It was terrible. Not honest, full of lies and his dark thoughts he wrote in suicidal moments. Was that what was considered revolutionary? If so, Spair considered this world lost. He wasn't even too sad about his poetry being doomed to get lost in time anymore, it would have done no good. The best it could have achieved would be a store sign saying: "Written by the author of world bestseller: 'Fuss brain'". Bah. Miserable.

But he had to admit that he wasn't less miserable until she showed up. After getting used to beauty and searching (and finding) nature's ugly spots, another house was getting built opposite to his place. Someone had bought the ground across the lake and Spair watched the construction workers create a new home. He wondered who dared to disturb his loneliness and found himself pleasantly surprised to see the owner - a blurred woman in a dress that flew in the wind. She wore a hat but no shoes, an imposingly natural sight, and Spair was not surprised to find himself utterly attracted to the mystery. Once they were alone, he spent significantly more time at his window, either watching her outside her house or simply eying the outside of her home. He would wonder what she was doing, which clothes she was wearing. Was she a wild hoyden in shorts and long open curls that made her look like the crown of a tree? Or was she a fragile porcelain doll, like the lily on the meadow? After long years of disappointment and the search for fulfillment, Spair had found another mystery to explore for himself and the woman seemed to read his thoughts. She would swim in the lake when he was watching and play her piano outside of her home until shreds of her melody reached his ears and filled his heart with what he was sure was love.

After two weeks, Spair wrote her his first love letter. It was full of poetic gold nuggets, Shakespearean comparisons to nature and his burning ambition to keep the mystery alive. He wrote it in a heated moment after listening to an exceptionally sad piece of hers that sparked the wish to heal her possibly emotionally weighed-down soul. "You're right Fright, it's time to fight.", he told his dog who had no idea what he meant but barked excitedly anyways. Her response was written kisses, dripping with affection and appreciation for his gentle praises, his ink-drenched greed, and his hope for a new life that was painted in his words. Their contact was based on diffuse distance and paper boats shipping love from one side to another. Spair was drunk with it and his hand had passed the point of cramping from the number of expressions he found for what he felt for this woman. She began kissing her letters with red lipstick, making him feel erotism on a whole new imaginary level and finally, he knew he had found his purpose. He had never seen a red this strong before.

Until she stopped responding.

At first, Spair didn't believe it. On good days, they sent each other letters two to three times a day. But then one day, she just didn't respond. Spair tried to think that she was probably writing a letter of so far unknown size. But he knew just as well that his doubts and his utter disappointment about his lover's lacking effort were betraying him. "She will reply tomorrow, maybe something caught her off guard, maybe she is sick.", he tried to calm his concerned dog who was extra affectionate that day, sensing Spair's distress. But not even Fright believed his lies. He kept on trying to calm Spair down, but the man's peace had been taken from him.

And he was right.

She did not reply.

From that day on, everything went downhill again. The colors were fading once again and despite his best efforts to get an answer, he found himself utterly hopeless against his slow spiritual and physical decay. As if he was aging ten years every day. Spair had not shaved in a week since the replies had stopped and his chin was itchy. Scratching it was not satisfying, nothing was satisfying anymore and he spent all of his time in front of the window, trying to catch a glimpse of her. It was frightening to him. He was at a point where he was almost desperate enough to spoil the mystery, to cross the lake and look her in the eyes, to tell her with his mouth how much he loved her. Grimacing, he wanted to turn away from the window when he noticed his dog looking back at him.

"What?", Spair asked as if the dog understood the gravity of the situation or anything for that matter. But Fright's eyes said everything. With a deep sigh, Spair wiped his eyes and shuffled to his desk to open a drawer. Folders jumped into his arms and he opened them to scan the letters ordered neatly by date, topic, and title. They were closed by a heart-shaped seal, she must have either had them in tore or she went to buy them. For him. These words were his proof of her love. For her dedication, her commitment to this unphysical relationship, this soul-bond. Had something happened to her? Spair opened the last letter she sent him and read the last verses:

'A burning ambition is my current  
State, you barde of a passionate torrent  
Like honey so sweet running down my lips  
Reminds me of sweat drops on fingertips  
The heat of two hearts, the beat of the shards  
Shattered dreams healing to the scent of nard  
Our union a star-destined prophecy  
Your words, love, a vital necessity'

The letter fell from his hand. He could not go over there. How could he destroy the image of gentle, spider-like fingers holding the pen in their hand, flying over the paper like a bird? Her red nail polish, fitting to her lips who just couldn't wait to end the letter with a long, delicate touch of her lips, a mark of her love that would send him deeper and deeper into his fantasies. No. What if she didn't have the same curly hair as he imagined her to have, the old-fashioned, out-of-place garments that would make so much sense given their paradisiac surroundings? Spair sank into a seating position, his dog crawled under his arm and winced heart-breakingly. Defeated by his dog, he petted his best friend, looking him into his deep eyes. "Are you sure I shouldn't go?", he asked Fright, and his dog seemed to nod. At least to Spair, it looked like that. Convinced of his actions again, he stood up and made his way into his bedroom, grabbing a hold of a copy on his nightstand. It was his best seller. 'Fuss brain.' He opened the cover and read the devotement: 'To the woman who destroyed my life: Hope Wrinkle'

Spair laid on his back and looked at the ceiling before reaching for a pencil and paper on his nightstand. Nobody wrote as Hope did. Nobody mastered the art of shaping words into feelings that couldn't be described by pictures. That's why he loved her so much. And that's why he knew who was living opposite him. Even despite this ground being inhumanly expensive and Spair did everything to destroy Hope's life by becoming famous and antagonizing her in the process. Whatever she did to get her, it had to be her. His inspiration had returned, he started to write. No, this was different. This time, he wrote because he had a reason. it came from him. That's why it was written in prose.

"Hope put the letter into the small paper boat and wiped a tear from her eye. A week had passed since she stopped doing this every day with the man who put her through so much pain. She thought that maybe he could have changed. He was absent from any human contact for so long, surely he must have come to thinking. He is a smart person. Why had she been so stupid, running after the man who purposely destroyed her? All that effort only to find that he was just the same as before. No move to find out who she was, even after she stopped responding. Not even checking whether anything had happened to her. Her life was over, in shambles, just like her hope. With one last sigh, she gave the boat with her last lines a push to make it sail over to the other side:

'I knew you couldn't change.'

Feeling relieved, she turned to her little house, skipping one, two times, her noose was waiting to free her from her turmoil."

Spair shook his head, crumpled the paper and threw it away, grabbing the next one. His pencil pierced the paper, he supported it with his book. It flew over the page like a freed pigeon.

"Spair couldn't take it anymore. What was his life worth? All the fame he earned from living his life after his ideology of fantasy ruling the earth - where did it lead him in the end? To complete loneliness and despair. He had just sunken deeper into the sea of honey and was now swimming in it, exhausting himself until he would inevitably drown. And now life offered him a second chance and he had to choose. Fright rubbed his head along his leg and looked up at him. But Spair shook his head. 'No, Fright, this time I have to do it.' He stormed out of the shack, nothing to lose, damn everything. With a strong leap, he dove into the water and swam through the cold water. His clothes stuck to his body, his aching muscles protesting, but he listened to his heart. It gave him the strength to stand up when he reached the shore, and there she was. She must have matured because she was way more beautiful than Spair remembered. She turned to him and smiled widely but tenderly, knowing the waiting had paid off. 'I knew there was hope for you.'"

Fright had crept up to his bed and was staring at him. Spair's eyes fixated the ending to his own story he had just composed in an unknown time. He either had to listen to Fright or take the chance that his version of Spair did. The man sat up. He had made his choice. He just hoped it was the right one.

🔜🔚🔚🔜🔚🔜🔚🔜🔚🔜🔚🔜🔚🔜🔚🔜🔚🔜🔚

Well, that was fun...

I was a little taken aback by my prompt:  
\- My word was 'Honey'  
\- And my emotion was 'hopeful'

What irritated me was the following: I consider myself great at writing sad, twisted stories and....well honey and hopeful are two things that trigger pleasant emotion inside me. So I needed to really think this one through. Happiness usually takes a dark turn when I write, so I had to watch myself and not get off track with the topic. I was also torn between prose and poetry (which you can see in the first paragraph), so I decided to simply merge the genres and write prose about a poet, which simply included some of his poetry. :)

Analysis (skip this if you intend to read it multiple times and find details on your own, this is author's notes)

It is my desire to create literature that has to be read multiple times in order to understand. I believe this is a piece of work like that. Did yoi get all the little details? Like the main character's name being a play on 'despair' or his dog personifying his fear of change by me literally calling him 'Fright'? What is so hopeful about this pretty dark piece? Hope is the general topic as well as a hidden emotion throughout Spair's entire story, starting with his lover's name being Hope. It's cheesy, but it fulfills its job, since she is Spair's personified hope of a more human life. She HOPES to broaden his horizon, lead him out of the fantasy world he lives in, but is disappointed. Spair HOPES to find fulfillment by becoming a popular artist and ruining Hope in the process, but he is disappointed, just as much as he is after finding out that living in the cabin in the woods doesn't solve his problems, even though he HOPES it would. 

And then the mysterious woman (whose identity I leave up to the reader) exchanges letters with Spair and he HOPES to rebuild a similar relationship like the one he had with Hope. But when she stops replying, Spair's last HOPE is taken away from him and he starts to fail as a human being. This is the turning point for his character and he is left to decide what he should do with his life. I think it is interesting how I got to use the word 'honey' as a hidden metaphor. 'Walking/swimming in honey' was something that came to my mind while listening to a song (Es reicht nicht - Bodo Wartke, the inspiration for this song), and it worked really well with the overall theme. Being a thick and sticky substance, honey would be agonizing to walk, let alone swim in, and it would a frustrating, life-threatening experience. It would drain your HOPE. Just like the situation Spair was in.


End file.
